Scribe's Rambling
by BookDragon
Summary: One-shots. A growing collection of one-shots. That's all I can really say right now...(rating may change.)
1. Default Chapter

Book Dragon: "Hey, basically, the bio says it all. This is going to be a collection of one-shots…Eventually. It may take some time. I'll update when I get an idea or something. As for now…just let me know if I've entertained you."

**Mirror**

I can see him, through the mirror. I can see him as clear as day. As clear as the night sky in the cold of winter twilight, his image is clear and crisp. It's as if you could reach out and touch him. Yet, when ever I try, I only get the cold smoothness beneath my fingers. Of the mirror. The mirror that doesn't show my reflection.

But his.

Ocean eyes. He has eyes that reflect the blueness of the Atlantic Ocean. Cold…Hard…a deathly deep blue that has a rage, an immense sternness. These are the eyes of a scared man. A hurt man. A man's whose childhood was snatched away. Like a flower moments from bloom that is uselessly crushed in it's prime. I feel deeply sorrowed by these eyes that stare so consistently back at me. No, that not right. He stares back at himself. His own reflection.

I watch as he strengthens his jacket, dove white and sleeveless. His stare is constant, and he brushes his fingers through his brown locks, fixing them. He carries that same serious look on his pale face. How can he stare so coldly? I shiver, my marrow chilled. Yet he 'ignores' me, continues fixing his appearance.

And I stand in front of the mirror in which he is shown, like a portal of sorts, the full length mirror. He's in his battle city attire, if you haven't guessed. I can help but feel excited. Perhaps, today. Today, maybe he'll see behind the reflection, finally see me, talk to me. I stand eagerly, two feet from the mirror.

My hand is hesitant, hovering in front of me. I want to reach out, reach through this reflective sustain in which a mirror is made of, reach through and touch him, let him know I'm here. I wish to help. Oh, it's like a mournful melody, playing incessantly. I want to let him know he's not alone, he's never alone. There are many of us that know his pain. His emotional wounds.

We see past your façade. We see the agony you live through everyday. We wish to keep you safe, to end this suffering in which has been inflicted upon you. We'll stand by your side, for that is what friends do, and we will battle away anything that threatens you.

And once again, my fingers touch cold hard mirror, and he finishes his daily routine, turns briskly from his own reflection and leaves the mirror, and leaving the inner workings of his home to my waking eyes. And again, as usual, my hopefulness is crushed like a newly blooming flower.

It's been a hard day. I drop my bag to the floor, and just let myself fall onto my bed. I'm so depressed. The cool darkness is coaxing, and I want to sleep. Yet, again, like the last three weeks of my existence, I sense movement. I know who it is. I know, and I'm so tired. I wish not to look, and yet I can't help myself as I look up.

He's fixing his shirt. His jacket is missing. He's just in the midnight black long sleeves. His fingers are pale and long, elegant. His eyes are deep, focused. The ocean waves are calm in his orbs. His face, as usual, captures my attention.

And as usual, I lean back, curling my legs up as I sit against the wall, and watch with strangely timid eyes. Every once of excitement is gone. And not for the first time, I begin my musings.

"What are you doing today?" I ask to no one in particular. He stares back, not flinching or blinking in anyway. He continues his business, straightening and polishing is appearance. Got to be clean and pressed for news cameras, right? I can't be angry. I'd be doing the same thing if I were in his shoes.

Something catches his attention. I can see it in the way his eyes change. No longer focused on the mirror. He turns his eyes toward his left, tilting his face side ways. I look up and see that the door is now open, and a boy, perhaps a preteen, is standing in the doorway. His black hair reaches past his shoulders, and his eyes are a darker navy than his brother's. Those eyes are staring at him. His mouth opens and shuts, yet no sound enters my ears.

He looks at the boy, listening to those unhearable words, speaks in his silent tongue, before turning back to the mirror. The boy, I watch him frown behind his brother's back, turn and shut the door softly behind him. I frown as I turn back to the businessman, seeing on his face that same apathy mask. Cryptic. Something he created. My frown grows deeper.

"What have you said?" I ask in a whisper.

But as usual, he never answers my questions.

My music is loud. I have my laptop out and I'm typing away. I know the story I'm weaving won't get anywhere, but still, it's the thrill of just confessing my inner thoughts and imaginings. My dreams.

Yet before I can get to heart of the constant scene had that been plaguing me, the dull plain background of the mirror is disturbed by his storming form, passing in and out in the span of a few seconds. I catch it, in the corner of my eye. I glanced at it, and wait a moment to see if I was just imagined it. He graces my sight again, traveling in the opposite direction. I can not miss the look of rage covering his expression.

Curiosity reawaked, I place my laptop aside and vigilantly watch. And for several moments there is no movement, but I'm confident. I wait several more minutes. And just as I get annoyed, the sight of a large desk comes crashing into the room silently and falls onto its side, through the door I had once seen Mokuba through and flinch. He comes in quickly after it, with a pace like a bat out of hell.

Rage has engulfed him. It burns like wildfire. An ocean boiling. I'm fascinated by it. Fascinated and slightly afraid. He grabs the desk by the it's opposite corners, his frame bent, and lifts it off the ground with majestic ease as he throws it farther. My entire mirror view is shaken by the weight of the thing tumbling about into the wall where I can still see it.

I watch in horror as he returns to the door and slams it with all his might, his white jacket swishing. In his wrath with slamming feet he returns to the cracked desk. I watch as in his ire he tares all the drawers out, flinging them across the room, as he continues to break the desk, kicking it and smashing his fists into it.

A half hour later the desk is in indistinct pieces, merely chunks of wood, and he, the famous CEO is on his knees, torn apart much like that desk. He doesn't move. Not so much of a quiver emanates from his form. He simply stays down, on his knees, his back to me, and arms out to his sides, like a small troubled boy who has been hurt far too many times.

I'm on my feet, I realize, and my hands are pressed against the mirror. I feel that my eyes are the widest they can go, my breath short, and it is me that is shaking. I'm shaking so badly. Part of me wishes to go through, talk to him, and comfort him. And the other? I feel newly aware of his savagery. I can still see him ripping the frame into shears with his bare hands. Is now cut up and bleeding hands.

I let my forehead touch the glass-like surface, let out a shuddering sigh. So much pain. It's contagious. I feel the fresh tears on my cheeks. Warm but never comforting. I wipe them away with my fists. Why must I be so empathic? Why can't I be the one to walk through the world apathetically? He doesn't even cry, and yet this watery salt covers my face. And yet I know why.

"He has no more tears to shed."

Hours later, I wake. I don't know when I fell asleep, but I did so while leaning against the bed, cradling my emotional wounds. His movement has awoken me. I flinch at how close his reflection is. He's standing, but barely. The image shakes as he used the mirror to keep himself up right. His hair is out of place, ruffled and not trim. Large purple color line the bottom of his eyes. He looks like he's been through hell.

I'm sure he has.

His breath steams the mirror, making a foggy imprint that quickly dissolves. He looks at his reflection with weak eyes. I am struck by them. And yet they close, and again he sinks to the floor at my level, his hand presses against the mirror, and I can see even his palms are scratched.

Uncertainly my hand is raised. It's like I'm in a trance, my movement slow. I let my hand press the mirror, my hand over his, kneeling.

"I'm here." I whisper gently. He shifts his head, his eyes still closed, and it looks like he's trying to sleep. He's so tired. But this is all I can do.

"I'm here Seto." His eyes peal open and again he looks into the mirror, but no more is there sternness. The pain is slowly receding, like the ocean's tide.

And for a moment, I feel like he could see me.

Book Dragon: "Hope you liked it."


	2. A Question of Safety

Book Dragon: "This one will probably be easy to figure out…wrote it a while back…that's all I've got to say…"

**A Question of Safety **

What do you think of me?

Does that question even matter? It wouldn't look like I'm going to care anyway. I'll keep my sinister mask, thank you very much. It's safer that way, you know. It's not like you know I exist, anyway, so how can you think of me at all?

And yet, I see you under your own mask. I know, deep down, you know of me. Yet, for some reason that eludes me, you choose not to remember. You choose to bat your brown eyes at your friends, and act like you don't have a clue what's going on. Play a case of amnesia.

And what does it get you? It lets you keep this little fantasy world you prop up around you. You can just will all that pain away and live in that fake reality of yours where your safe, like a foolish Princess locked away in her tower. Even with the support and concern of your friends you don't let them in. They stay, outside, trying to look in while you stare out at them through your mirrory glass.

You puzzle me. Deeply. But obviously, I make it look like I don't care. You're just a tool after all. Something to get my work done and completed with. Still…it would be interesting. If you let me talk to you instead of pretending I don't exist. We could talk, for hours I'd bet. But perhaps you're afraid I'd break you. Shatter your mind into a thousand little bits, like I do to many others. Is that it?

Or do you just prefer your little dream world? Walking and feeling carefree. Not having the fear that something darker and more dangerous lurks inside of you, like must kids your age. To be normal. To hide behind that happy mask as you do now.

Tell me, my dear vessel, is that safer, too?

Book Dragon: "As usual, I'd appreciate reviews."


	3. Sandman

Book Dragon: "Eh, what can I say? I had a poetic moment…"(winces)

Book Dragon: "This will also be pretty easy to figure out…(cough cough TombRobber cough cough)****

****

**Sandman**

Walk, Sandman.

Keep your strained strides,

Your balance on the dessert tides,

Keep sure feet among the dunes.

Far and long you have traveled, Sandman.

I can see it in your wavering steps,

Tired, almost weary,

But a growling hunger drives you,

Brings light in your eyes,

Revenge.

It's a simple word.

And yet, for you, it has been your life's meaning.

Perceived as the Robber,

Not so.

Beneath your cryptic face,

There lies an avenger.

The smoldering ruins,

The decaying flesh blanketed by sand,

The foul odor still lingers in your nose.

Fuels your raging mind.

And all because of the Pharaoh,

The great Pharaoh,

The one that locked the magic away,

Responsible for the items,

Wrought of flesh and gold,

Seven, there were mold,

Powers of great were made.

And that rightfully belongs to you, Sandman?

Steadily, over centuries,

Your strides have gone incessantly,

Seeking the kin you had long lost,

The ancient rage alive,

The wounds of old still not healed,

Only veiled beneath your face.

Child of old,

Spirit of new,

You are but the sand flowing in the wind,

Not a thief, but a man

strictly wandering the sand,

Walking along the desert tides,

A scared Re-Avenger.

Book Dragon: "Uh…please review?"


	4. One Letter Off

Book Dragon: "Don't have a clue where this came from. I just wrote down the first word and the rest of it just sort of flowed after. Hope you find it as interesting as I do."

Rose Red.

That's the color of blood, isn't it? Spanned across blinding white snow. The first snow he had ever seen. That's the color of blood when it's first spilled, isn't it? The type they die those crimson dresses women wear. A brilliant bright crimson, like the blood is shocked at being in open air instead of the narrow goodness of the veins. Like it has a mind of its own. Like it is alive.

It is alive, come to think of it.

Only when it dries is it truly dead. Lacking of life. Pale shaking fingers touch that pool of steaming redness. Still warm. Shock was leading to confusion in his purple stare. Shaking confused fingers of a man who had neither seen snow nor blood in that fashion, forget seeing them together like that.

Someone was killed here.

His breath, short and impatient, comes in fast gusts of fog in the cold of the winter air. Violet eyes darted with bewilderment, staring and searching the great pool for a purpose of it's being there. You know Violet seems to sound and look a lot like Violent? One letter off. Eh? Not that big of a difference on the surface, right?

It's only when you know the means of those words that you see they are not the same.

He put the blade down slowly, releasing it from his sweaty gasp, horrified. The kitchen knife that was wetted with the same drying crimson. It landed softly with a thud in the bright white of snow. Flakes where falling on his face. He didn't know that you called them snowflakes. They were pretty. None were the same. His eyes settled on them wonderingly.

He didn't know why he was here. Didn't know why his shirt was covered in blood. Didn't feel the slashes at his arms or the cuts in his palms. Didn't feel the receding warmth or the sleeping vessel with in him. Was he even sleeping? He didn't know. He decided he was going to lie down, for a while. He felt tired. His wrists itched. He laid on his back, his purple eyes on the black sky, dropping glittering specks of snow on his face.

He stared at the moon and the stars peaking from behind a huge black gray cloud with wide awaking eyes. Awed eyes. Weeping eyes. Had it been in defense? Or was it an attack? Why was he crying? The pool was drying in the snow. His great purple eyes were closing in the dead of night.

Yeah, Yami. Who did you kill? That was what his mind enquired angrily. Weird. Yugi wouldn't wake up. He wanted to ask him the same question. Wanted to ask what they were doing out here. Why Tea's name was on the great gray stone about a foot away. And why he was so tired.

Someone was dead. It was almost like he could smell it. His eyes finally closed, leaving him with no moon or stars. Only blackness. Deep stretching blackness. An abyss he had eluded for so many long years. It was ominous but surprisingly a great relief to finally be seeing it. He felt the flow of liquid from the itch of his wrists and realized that it was him bleeding out. Realized that the gray stone was actually a gravestone.

Have you ever noticed how Violet can depict love?

Have you ever noticed how Violet and Violent are only off by one letter?

Have you noticed that freshly spilled blood of a mournful heart is the color of roses?

Yeah. Who did you kill Yugi? Who did you kill Yami?

The single word left him in a wisp of fog before he plunged into eternal sleep.

"Us."


	5. The Admirer

Book Dragon: "Here's another one."

The Admirer

The ancient Pharaoh was musing, busily musing on the bench he was sitting at. His arms leaned on the back board of the sitting place, his eyes cast slightly upward to the setting sun. His skin welcomed the cool wind that ruffled his hair, and he closed his violet eyes momentarily to enjoy that moment of pleasure, and for a moment he was completely free of those thoughts.

They were back again when that moment ended.

It had been a strange dream he had had the night before. A very strange dream that had him zoning off to think about it every five minutes or so all day. Which usually wasn't a problem. Yugi being at school doesn't give him much to do other than sit in his soul room and there was nothing more boring that those classes. He wondered sometimes how his vessel could stay away.

He was dozing now. His vessel was sleeping peacefully, and he didn't want to bother him with such odd thoughts. He wouldn't tell him of this trip outside either. Better not to trouble him. He was suppose to take care of him. He would do so. For as long as he was able.

No, it was best not to trouble him with that dream. And thinking about it now, while watching the fiery red ball descend through the pinkish purple sky, was enough to send him tumbling back into that place. That screen that kept playing over and over again.

And in the dream it was much like this, on the park bench, wearing is blue coat, pants, belt, etc, looking out over that high hill, over the city laying beneath, watching the sun. But it's rising instead of setting. And he isn't by himself.

His legs are crossed and he has one hand on his ankle. He sees this while looking down, having no control of his eyes. Yet, he can see her in his peripheral vision, fuzzy and not a complete picture. Like a puzzle.

She had brown hair, he knows that much. When he woke up this morning he wondered quietly if it was Tea or something, but he didn't understand why his mind would create such weirdness with her in it.

He can hear her breathing. Calm, cool, and collected breaths. Yet, he knows something about this is wrong. Very wrong. He can't move. The dream has him locked in place. He looks back at the sun as she started to speak in a voice he's never heard before.

"Beautiful." A sigh of a tone. Female tone. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't even twitch at the comment. It's like he's trying to ignore her. Her voice echoes eerily, like she's a great distance away. So odd. He can feel her looking at him.

"You are more now than you first appeared."

"How so?" he asks in a conversational way. She's quiet for a moment, hesitant, before turning her face forward back to the view.

"I wouldn't be able to explain, I think I might scare you."

"Try me." She sighs. It's not a sad sigh. Not even irritated. He couldn't even figure out what was hidden underneath it.

"I've…just watched you for so long…makes me sound like a stalker, does it?" He can see her fidgeting with her hands. He totally disregards her last statement.

"How is this different?" It was clear as day she was smiling.

"Believe me, this is _very_ different." There is more silence. He can hear her breathing next to him. Can feel her eerie presence next to him, somehow different from the regular person's. He appears calm in the dream, but instead he's trembling and nervous. She's still smiling.

"I've wanted this for a long time, you know. I'm Lucky."

"Lucky?"

"Uh huh, many would give anything to talk to you, and now that I'm here I'm not quite sure what I should be saying. Ironic? I've visualized this meeting in my head over and over again, for years, and now that I'm here, I can't remember a single one." She laughs. It's a haunted laugh. The kind of laugh you hear from someone who's spent many evenings stuck in their mind. He would know.

Finally, he turns his face towards her and watched the puzzle fly into completion, but with that answer even more puzzlement is gained. He had never seen her before. She has the most common face, the kind you forget easily after you see it. Even now he was having trouble seeing it. All he can remember clearly is the gray tearing eyes. Haunted eyes. Eyes like gravestones.

"Who are you?" His voice is no longer neutral, and it crawls with uneasiness. Riddled with it. He feels a small tinge of fear swim tightly around inside his chest, like a shark in murky water, as he looks. And she smiles, a sorrow filled grin with pained eyes.

"An admirer." She whispers with a soft voice, looking away from his face, averting her eyes, the strange frank twist of the lips dancing fuzzily in front of him as her hair drapes to hide her face. He notices something wrong with it, but he can't figure it out, no matter how he tries to look. It can't be placed.

"There are many of us, and we have wished so strongly for your victory, wished so hard we've ached because of it. We all ache. You were never alone. Even when no one was there present, alive and breathing for you to see, we were. We've watched you so intently. You remind us of the things we've wanted, the things we need, the things we strive to become. You are the inspiration for us children. And in that your memory remains so much longer after that."

She looks up from the ground and into his face, her eyes still wet, but no more tears fall. Her grin is twisted into a hurt he can't figure out.

"…And for that, I will always miss you."

And out of no where he is embraced by this girl he doesn't even know, tightly, as if he will slip away if she doesn't grasp him so. He can feel her hair tickling his neck; the smell of graveyard soil; feel her breath on his ear as she whispers.

"Never let go of yourself and never give up. You'll go home, just as I am now. And you will find us all. I will talk of this and laugh, and in remembering I will smile and be happy. Good bye, Atem."

And she slips away, suddenly enveloped in the mist she always was, her voice echoing endlessly to dead air. That mist climbs high into the sky, vanishing less startling than when she changed. He is left alone, or seemingly alone, on that bench…

…Much like he was now. He blinked the dream away, aware that the sun is setting, not rising. Aware that she was no one he had ever seen before. She could've been a figment of his imagination. Something his mind had created out of randomness for the specific dream.

Yet that wasn't so. The words in that strange voice were to well put together for a dream. Her eyes too haunted and gray like a November winter day. The beginning of the season of dying. Of cold and dismal surroundings. A time of dead things Gray eyes stretching much deeper than you could see.

He sits there, alone, musing. Watching the sun, his eyes a beautiful violet bright. With his sleeping vessel nestled deep inside the safety he could provide while he thought wonderingly. Wondering, quietly, so very quietly, how many more of them are there? How many souls could possibly lingering like that? What did they mean?

And were they watching him right now?


	6. Secret Pains

Book Dragon: "Another."

**Secret Pains**

_I've been here_.

He suddenly realizes it in a strange eerie way. These objects were familiar to his eyes. The sounds his ears were use to. The smell as plain and normal as anything. And yet, he didn't know what any of this. Not really. He may have been here, yes that could be, anything is possible, but why?

_I-I-I' v-v-v-e-e-e b-b-b-e-e-e-e-e-n-n-n h-e-e-e-r-r-r-e-e-e…_

Muffled, like a creaking door way. It's cold. In this gray misty fog it's cold and he doesn't like it. The feeling of danger grows like a twisting lurch in his stomach. The hair rises on the back of his neck. Yet he keeps walking. Walk, walk, walk, walk. Step, step, step. There is something horrible and twisted in those footsteps. His footsteps. He can see his shadow lurking behind him, doesn't under stand the fright crawling up the insides of his chests at the sight of the black of it.

He just kept walking in the shuffling fog.

There's whispering. His feet walk on through the numbing fog, his arms hugging himself to keep warm. His breath steams in plumes of fog. This place is gray like November. Keep walking on forbidden ground. He feels something chasing him, something he's fought back for so long he doesn't even recognize it. Is it a memory? Or maybe it's just a nightmare?

His ebony shadow twists below his feet. He can see it without looking. It's like he's outside of himself. Watched the white haired boy walk on gray soil earth, something smelling like graveyard soil reeks into his nose as an exotic perfume. He strangely understands how a vampire hunter feels on his first run, even though he's doing nothing of the sort of hunting. Perhaps being the rabbit in the eye of a hungry fox was a better metaphor.

It makes him as scared as hell walking between the gravestones, walking across the earth that housed many dead rotting corpses that had once been living breathing creatures. It smells like rotting earth and stone. He's afraid not to end up like them and live for ever by drinking the life in the blood of victims.

His vampire didn't need to drink to get at that.

The shadow continues to twist.

He watches it change into the shape it always mimics. He is his shadow, after all. It is only logically for him to come from that darkness that has housed him. Housed in him, the need inside his soul that feeds him life as well as consciousness. He watches with wide eyes as the black changes into white, into pale skin, into dark silent brown staring eyes. Eyes like his own. Hauntingly like his own eyes.

It takes his shape and stares down at him.

_"I told you to stay out of here…"_ A cool dark voice echoes into the still air. The shivering kid stares at him, his mirror, and feels the extreme difference between them. Feels the power. Smells the reeking scent of death on him. He shakes from cold no longer, but from something entirely else.

"I-I know." He whispers, averting his eyes away. There is silence, and yet he doesn't know where the out door was. He hadn't when he had been littler. Then he had ran away from this great darkness, a mere four year old, crying as fast as his wobbly legs had aloud him to go until It caught him, picked him up, and-

_"Bakura."_ He is shaken from the memory like vision and looks at the thing that appears like him. He can easily imagine fangs behind that frowning mouth and suppresses a scream. Those brown eyes stare inhumanly. Never blinking.

"Yes?" he asks weakly.

_"Take my hand."_ He stares at him. Stares at him with fright and some twisted feeling of curiosity. Scared wonder. He knows what will happen if he doesn't put out his hand, what will happen if he doesn't obey. This new unknown horror settling around him, however, had him baffled. He takes the outstretched hand, once clothed in black, once a weapon of pain, takes it with numb timid fingers.

Those ghostly fingers clasp around hard, making him yelp into this misty place and his eyes boggle. He expects to be yanked forward, forward to the ground, for ward to receive punishment for his wandering. Expects earth to swallow him around his shuddering still breathing figure. His soon to be screaming form.

There is no pulling lurch.

It is replaced by a gentle tug.

They walk together. Stumbling feet behind sure feet. The mist parting for its master and master's puppet. He feels like a small child again, being led by a sure adult. A dangerous adult. Neither of them are adults. He was shaking uncontrollably, trying to figure out what kind of pain would be inflicted upon him. How much it would hurt. And why or when he thought of this sort of torture.

The mist cleared in the circle. The circle that contained two slabs of parallel stones in the very center. He wonders what they are for. Dreads what they are for. The thing that had been living inside of him for so many years stopped walking at the center of the circle, stopped and turned on him with sure strong eyes.

_"Sit."_ It said, said and pointed to the stone to his left. He sat down without question. Sat and watched It with wary eyes. It sat down a little while after him, turned, and looked at him with glowing brown eyes. There was silence for what felt like eternity. Those brown eyes were maddening and scarily twisted so they didn't look like his own eyes anymore.

_"Tell me."_ It demanded. Bakura told it all.

Tears streamed from his eyes.

The next thing he knows he's being carried. His whole form hurts, aches, at every quiver of movement. His vision is fuzzy. Everything is still a gray November Beast. His breath goes in shuddering plumes of steaming fog. He leans on the warm body carrying him only because he is so weak. In the frailness there was still fear in those sure gripped hands.

And he can see those brown eyes looking down at him in the strangeness of it.

"Why?" He whispers, the movement of his mouth making him wince and the sound of his chocked ragged voice. He feels so vulnerable. Wonders why It doesn't just tare him to pieces and just take everything he had. Take everything away. Destroy him and steal everything.

_"…There are things one's mind doesn't allow." _It's a whisper. It holds him tight, the consciousness he never understood with weary brown eyes. Its thumbs are wet. Wet with tears. Brushing away tears. The steps aren't so sure, and he is tired.

It knew the question still lingered.

Why?

_"Just heal, vessel. Heal and wait for me."_

In the vanishing gray matter, dissipating like smoke around them, changing as he carries him out of his territory. Leads him out of the Lion's den he had scrambled into for refuge from the severe pain outside. The place where one pain would've been replaced by an other.

Instead there was no pain.

Bakura slept.

And the Spirit of the Ring watched.

Watched with a heavy heart full of secrets.

Secret pains…


	7. Scribe's Rambling

Scribe's Rambling

He told me to write a story.

And I sat there staring at him. He had been in the doorway at the time. I'm surprised how little that memory as faded. It had been a gloomy due to the rain clouds haunting my windows. Maybe that's why he looked a little more dangerous than usual, not that that means much. At that point, I was having the lights knocked out of me at least once a week, and bleeding every two days or so. It was regular fun around the block back then.

His hair was spiky straggly mess; a fierce blazing white turned a darker shade of gray because of whatever dirt and filth he hadn't washed out yet. His clothes had the same wrinkled disheveled appearance, one pant leg pulled up more than the other and his collar lopsided. It was early in the morning, so the just woken appearance was familiar. Even how he had one hand probing himself up against the door frame like his body had been sleepily protesting to his movements. That would've been fine.

That wide awake glow burning in his eyes made my heart climb so readily into my throat. Breathing was difficult. If there is ever a time of fearing the unknown, it's when you see that unearthly shimmering thoughts of a beast you have no understand of. Something that randomly kills at the blink of an eye for seemingly no reason. Maybe even for the pleasure of it.

That's barely scratching the surface, but unfortunately, all I can really offer to you in a way of description. Sadly, I'm not as good as a writer as I wish to be, and worse even before all of this happened. It began simply. If you can believe, my real story-telling journey began when I was very small. Very small and ignorant. Exactly when, again, I have no precise details, but I know it began around four or five.

You see, by then I was convinced there was a monster that followed me everywhere. I remember several sleepless nights of hiding under the covers, whispering and wishing for it to go away. Please. Just go away. Other times I'd watch the shadows that liked to move, with wide tired eyes. I never actually _saw_ the thing, but I knew it was there. What else could that voice be coming from? Where else did that twisted laughing come from? Big open wide jaws with dripping fangs of course, cloaked cunningly in the darkness, or hiding behind closed doors, in cupboards, under the sink, down the drain, in my closet, hell probably even in the dark pocket of the insides of my shoes.

Only once did I scream for my father, near the beginning. I was hit across the face hard enough to make a pink palm print across my face and a nose bleed. I never called for help again. I sat up most nights listening to that scary dark muttering, echoing or talking in a whispering scratch depending where I was. Helplessness like that is something no child should have to endure.

He was staring at me with those haunting eyes, a small smile slipping onto his lips, looking at me all curled up in my bed, notebook carefully concealed under the blankets, looking at him with stunned confused eyes.

"W-W-What?" I wheezed through the pin hole in my throat.

"Write me a story." He repeated casually. I blinked again. I opened my mouth again to ask when he moved with god-like speed. In an instant his hand is in my hair, pulling it hard, and exposing the soft flesh of my throat below his dark brownish maroon glowing eyes. I swallowed nervously, my Adam-apple seeming to dance in front of his cool predatory eyes. He pulled my hair until I gasped with pain, opening and closing my hands. Couldn't grab his wrist. That would mean even more pain. So I stared up at him with bright-eyed fear. He basked in it for several moments. I could see the pleasure spreading through him, how agreeable it was to see me hurting.

Then he got bored he leaned forward, his lips centimeters from my ear. His warm breath swirled inside the canal and made a fluttery itch.

"Write. Me. A. Story. This is your native language, is it not? What can't you understand?" Painfully soft. He shoved my head hard forward and realized his eagle claw grip on my head. There was throbbing, and I reached at it with shaking fingers as he calmly walked away. My breath was shaky with the tears welling in my eyes, making them hot and uncomfortable. Had to hold them in until he was gone. I was glad to see he was at least in the right direction, but despaired when he stopped in the doorway. He turned and looked at me sternly.

"I want it by tomorrow. Tomorrow. Or else."

He shut the door with a bang.

Early childhood was the beginning of my story-telling part of my writing. The actual writing didn't come until much later. About three years ago, in fact. He sent me spiraling down the stairs in one of those sections. I can't remember how bad the pain was, and I doubt anyone really can. It's one of those things I think is better to fade in memory, I don't know how messed up I'd be if I remembered it all in great detail.

Anyway, I was laid up in the hospital for a week, nothing to do. My father was in Italy on business. Didn't think it was important enough to come home for. Probably thought, 'Hey, he only took a little fall down the stairs; he'll be right and dandy in no time, not like the poor bastard's dead.'

I broke my leg, busted a rib, and cracked the side of my skull falling down about twelve steps. And heavy bruising, though I don't actually account that from the falling action. They couldn't find a reason for it. I _was_ the only one in the house that day, or so they believe. I try not to contradict. I think I like my house better than an insane asylum. Why not add a few bruises to falling down the stairs?

The pain had been bad. I got a call button but most of the time it didn't work too well. Most nights I was in my room alone with tears leaking steadily down my face from pure sweet delicious agony. Some weeping, some sobbing noises. No relief.

But my mind was pretty much free, and I knew enough to try to be doing something constructive. Amazing things can happen when your mind is somewhere else. If I've learned anything, it's that a least. My head throbbed and I had one hell of a headache all the time, but if I could get away from it all, I could separate myself from the pain.

But with what?

I was looking around the room, studying and studying. I must have looked at the only set of flowers I got for about the twentieth god-damn time. Anonymous, if you can believe that. I couldn't. But disbelieve was over by then, and the excitement gone by the third hour. Plain blue curtains. The bathroom door was still partly open, not that I'd be using it any time soon. The floor waxed with a grayish tinge. Blue blankets, call button, bed controls, note pad partially written and a pen on a wheeling table, my shoes at the end of the bed, the lights, that IV drip, and the damned plant again.

There wasn't anything interesting enough. Sweat kept dripping in my eyes, my rolling eyes. And my fingers were gropping like a drowning man reaching for air above. I blacked out by then. Blacked out into sweet delicious darkness where there are no pain, no memory. And especially no voices.

Thank God, there were no voices.

Woke up later to the nurse giving me a shot. Muttering cool words as she dabbed a cloth against my cold brow. Soothing words of comfort. Part of me wanted to know where the hell she had been before, and the other was singing with thankfulness that she was here, and the pain was finally receding. And when it was gone, I was breathing normally, and she was gone, I finally saw the pen curled in my hand and the pad of paper no longer clear, but crawled upon so heavily that on the other side it could've been Brail. I dropped it down on the table and picked up the pad, curious enough, and read.

And read, and read, and read…

And when it was over I felt dazed and in a trance. Thoughtful reflective trance that I had never even heard of before, pad laid down on my lap and my eyes open and a little glassy. Meandering thoughts where I was stunned. Stunned at the words were in my penmanship and one single fact.

They were actually _good_.

I was sitting in front of my computer, staring at the blinking curser on the white digital paper of Microsoft Word with such a loss I have never felt before. Blank eyed and with only worried thoughts in my head. Write me a story he says. Out of the blue. Must have found all the files on the computer. Must have seen some of my work. Must be trying to using it against me. A weapon. A simple sadist weapon.

And yet, I was puzzled all the same.

Write me a story.

I have never written for anything else but pleasure. It is the best pain-killer I have ever had. The only thing I can really think to compare it do would be mediation. That's how it feels. You are so deep into thought that nothing around you seems real. The only reality is the one blossoming in my head. And there, I can be anything I desire. I can be free, careless, and even angry. I'm allowed to scream and curse in text when I wouldn't have the bravery to in this place. That's were the relief comes from. Where I'm not myself and I don't live like this. That's what I used.

Six hours later I was still staring at the same blank screen, my hands buried in my hair and starting to weep in frustration. Write me a story he says. Write me a story. How the hell am I suppose to just write a story out of the blue. I sobbed for another hour in pain and misery. He was going to beat me. That's all there was to it. And I'd have to waste another day of school trying to recover and another day of 'Bakura is there something wrong at home?' Another day of lying through my teeth, giving that damned fake smile no one seems to see as fake, and saying 'Oh yes, everything is wonderful.' Everything was as peachy as hell.

By eight hours, my fingers were slamming down on the keys with such force I later wonder by the keyboard stayed together. Tears were drying on my cheeks and great words of rage were sprouting like fresh daisies. I wrote what he did to me. I wrote how horrible it was. I wrote of his insane behavior. Wrote of his random predatory actions. And how it hated it all so much with malicious words I never even dared think of before.

Sixteen hours I had an eight page story, preened to perfection printing out, and calming down. I fell into bed, leaving the story pined to the outside of my door, calling the sucker Winter's Rage, for the first time caring oddly not at all. I actually thought 'Screw him.' Before finally nodding off to sleep.

Woke up in the early morning, ravenously hungry. Walked into the kitchen, or maybe a better word for it is stumbled. I was leaning against the walls, inching my way there. Pulled open the fridge and with shaking fingers stuffed as much as an apple into my mouth while taking out the milk carton, and butter. Shut the fridge with my leg, and continued to skate around the room, inhaling the apple more than eating it, grabbing random things from random cabinets.

The apple was gone and I had stuffed three pieces of raw bread into my mouth waiting for the eggs, the pancakes, the bacon, and the toast to cook enough to be eaten. I was sipping coffee and milk (kept switching between them). I was hungry. I didn't care and if I was going to eat, I might as well have a great big damn feast while I was at it.

Buttered the pancakes and added syrup, eating half of it as I was doing it, when he waltzed into the room. I froze at the sight of him, but he gave no notice. His eyes were glued to the slightly crumbled wad of paper. His movements were strange precise even though he had no contact with this reality. I watched him with growing horror as he took three pieces of toast, two pancakes, and the coffee. He left and as silently as he arrived. It left me stupefied, a mouth full of food with frozen eyes.

That's how the day began and how it pretty much stayed. I hovered around the house. He spent his time between the kitchen and the living room. He'd get up, get some food, come back and sit in the same exact place on the couch and eat it until there was nothing left, read more, and the process would start all over again when he got hungry. I was left hanging for more than half of the day, anxiously waiting for the result as well as feeling a strange sense of wonder. Then took a nap.

Never got an answer on how the story was. I should've expected that. I like to think that that was a sign that it was good. If he didn't complain then it was good. Never the less, next thing I know I've being shaken very hard on the shoulder from a deep sleep. Everything seemed like in a different dimension, my eyes feeling glassy despite how wide they flew open. The first words out of my mouth were gibberish. He ignored it completely.

"Write me another story." He says to my fuzzed still asleep mind. "Write about a couple. Young couple." He stopped the shaking for a moment as he stopped to think further. I sat up, blinking my eyes hard in attempt to wake up further.

"Make it dirty. I want it by tomorrow." He says after that thoughtful pause. That wakes me up.

"What? I can't-"

Before I can even finish, he's boxed my ears very hard.

In the end I find myself staring at the blinking cursor, rubbing my crimson ears, wincing at the pain and the heat. I was mortified. I knew absolutely _nothing_ about girls. Or even romance, for that matter. Never even crossed my mind once. And yet I had to write something about it. Even the intimate details. I hold back a shiver and stare at the blank screen.

Make it dirty.

The only thing I knew about sex was from health class. And that stuff made me close to fainting. Thinking about it then was making me light-headed. That's a discussion I didn't ever want to go near again. And yet I had to. He may have not said 'Or else' but that was implied now. I wasn't sure how to begin, but at least deciding to begin was half the battle. That done, I took a huge breath, and let it out. A fluttery nervous feeling was in my chest now, and another huge breath had no effect on it. I sighed, and decided the only way to start was to answer a simple question I never even dared ask myself.

What would I want from a woman?

I tacked the story on the outside of my door about four hours later, The Wish, and tried to fall asleep of several hours without thinking about what I just wrote and found it was hard. My mind just kept going with it, no matter how many times I kept smacking my head and whispering for it to please stop. Even worse, the response I was getting from it all was…hard to ignore. Needless to say woke up sweaty at least once in the night with the need to change my shorts.

Woke up the next morning and while eating breakfast I caught a single glance of him reading it, and decided it would be a good day to go out. Leave and not come back until I had too.

He was smiling.

It went like that, off and on, of at least a month. Every other day, weather I was coming home from school, or I was being shaken violently awake, I was demanded a story. Write me a story. Sometimes I'd be free to write what I felt like; sometimes I'd have specific instructions. Write me about brothers. Write me about warriors. Write about twins. Write something with desert. Write something with summer. Write about an orphan. Write about a dead man. Write about a lonely girl. Write about an old man. Write, write, and write!

And it wasn't until then I figured it out.

I remember that clearly, but still not as clearly as when he first asked me. I'll admit that. I actually came home from school and I was so tired. I mean drop dead tired. He had demanded me at least fourteen stories during the week. Imagine having to write all that and then do your homework around it. I was at the point were I would've rather been beaten than have to write one more word.

Shut the door and hung my bag on the post at the end of the stairs, before sluggishly making my way into the kitchen. I was wondering how hard it would be to install a sliding latch lock on my door and if he'd noticed before I was done. I was starting to really consider it, as I poured a glass of orange juice and heated a few cookies in the microwave. The plan had been to get a snack and sleep for the rest of the night, or until he came in and started demanding another story.

I was eating the cookies when my bored eyes happened upon one of the newspapers discarded there. I suppose that was a miracle that I picked that one and not any of the other issues felt around. Let me tell you this; my house is completely cluttered. I don't be a few pieces of paper here or there, I mean everything is practically buried. When your father is never home and neither of you is very neat, your house would look this way, trust me.

It was the front page. I never watch the news. Usually it was always bad news, and I already have enough bad news going for me without having to hear that everyone else is miserable. The opener for the bestseller's list. That was good. I wanted to see what would be interesting to read, maybe when all of this finally blew over. It had to blow over eventually; it was only a matter of time before he got sick of reading what I had to say. Or finally told me about what this lesson or torture was about anyway.

It was about a guy who called himself Thoth. That was the author's full name. Thoth. If I had been less fatigued, then I probably would've laughed at how bizarre it was. I small smile did slip onto my face, around the glass I was drinking from. They called him a genius. Turns out his book of short-stories were selling like hot cakes. That's unusual I guess, usually an author gets known by his or hers first novel. Short-stories usually don't sell well for first time authors, and he was a first time author. There were comments about 'popping out of no where'. It was a fluke of nature.

I was shaking my head, laughing a little, and looked at the title of the book, Tales of the Desperate, that was cute, and skimmed some of the stories that were in it. The further I read the more and more slack my wrist went. Until finally it slipped out of my hand and smashed on the floor. I actually never heard it break; I noticed later when my footsteps were crunching oddly when I got up out of the chair I fell into. Glad I was still wearing my sneakers, later, when the shock blew over.

Familiar titles, they were all the titles I had thought up. That was the dizziest I have ever felt by far. That was even worse than having to write my second demand story. My head was spinning and I was gasping for air at the shock. Simple shock. God, I felt like I was going to be sick, right there in the kitchen. My heart was banging harder than I expected it. There was panicked little whisper of a giggle, and then slammed my hand over my mouth.

In a daze I sat there until I heard some one call my name softly. Looked up and found it was him. He had his arms crossed and was looking at me from across the table. Staring at me with knowing eyes. Staring at me with a dark abyss that was always so intimidating. He seemed perfectly calm. In control. Powerful. And I just stared at him for a long, long time. Neither of us seemed to move for a century. Then, before I even knew I was, I opened my mouth and spoke. Asked a simple question, that's how doors are opened anyway. Simple questions.

"Why?" And he laughed. A dark chuckle that made the hair rise on the back of my neck. Made me feel like a child again, and the monster was laughing again. I wasn't small, but the monster, never the less, was laughing again. The monster that had no shape unless I gave it to him. The monster that existed in my being. All because of a little gift my father gave me, one I never quite threw away since it was a gift of love, and love was so hard to come by.

And for a while I was sure he won't answer. Why would he answer a question so someone he felt never mattered? Someone lower than him? I sat there, cowering slightly in my chair, as he stopped laughing and a cruel smile shaped on his lips. And I got an answer.

"Come now, Bakura. You have talent and heart, but no courage or guts. No guts, no glory. I hate to see such good potential go to waste. Nothing that powerful should go to waste. Strength is power. Haven't you figured that out? You're a good writer, Thoth. Do you even know who Thoth was? He was the scribe of the gods. If anything truly beautifully was written, it would be his work. The work of a _god_."

He left me in the kitchen, staring off into space. Thinking, just thinking through the numbing shock of it all. Unaware of the broken glass. The sun setting quietly through the pulled shades. The silence in which time was passing. The things happening beyond those walls surrounding my shell-shocked body.

A scribe. Thoth was a scribe. He found a way to publish my work. Found away to publish my rambling thoughts. Yeah, more like scribe's rambling. He called me a scribe. And maybe I am. Authors are new age scribes right? Thoth's rambling. He called my work beautiful. He said I had good potential. He said I had power. He said I was a good writer. He called me a scribe. He called me Thoth.

I put shaking fingers and pressed the side of my head. My eyes closing into darkness, after the whole world was cloaked in the darkness of night. I couldn't hear him anywhere. It didn't matter. For the first time in my life I had gotten a compliment. Quiet a few at once. Never before. Someone had seen past and saw something I never did. A part of me. And I couldn't believe it. Or the uplifting feeling I felt. Any of it.

He called me Thoth.

He said my work had to be that of a god.

He thought _I_ was a _god_…


End file.
